


come back inside

by flightagain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Divergence, M/M, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 09:14:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3244250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightagain/pseuds/flightagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>post-s8 au. The angels have disappeared, and Cas keeps searching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He keeps leaving.

You’re making a list, and it isn’t written down, but it’s movies he could’ve watched, it’s awesome meals you’ve made, it’s jokes you think he’d understand. It’s the time you went to the grocery store and there was this little kid outside, holding up this puppy, too big for her but she had her arms wrapped right around it. Its legs were dangling but it seemed okay, and as you walked by you saw her kiss it right on the forehead.

You miss him and it isn’t great. You think things in your head like they’re things you’re going to say to him, when he gets back. But there are too many. You’ll never remember them all. And they’ll sound stupid, later, if you do.

\--

He comes back and he has the duffel bag you gave him, the usual pair of jeans, a new tear in the denim above one knee. His hair’s longer, and there’s the beard again. You touch his face, his cheek, and make a joke, because you’ve done it before, because you think he doesn’t know that you shouldn’t. He gives his half-smile. The one that’s always uncertain. You remember the kid and the puppy and you consider the colossal impossibility of ever sharing that with Cas.

This is why you should be here, asshole, is what you’re thinking now.

\--

He’s so polite sometimes. You don’t know how to make him stop.

He tells you that he’s grateful for your hospitality, and you stare at him so long that he gets that worried look.

"I don’t mean to overstep," he adds, "staying here."

"No, you - Cas, dude. We want you here." But you can see that it’s too late. You are very bad at this.

You’re not surprised when he goes again. You start up a new list. The sparrows that have started hanging near the bunker’s door. That time Sam dropped the milk and the carton just exploded. You think Cas could’ve laughed at that, if he’d seen it.


	2. Chapter 2

He calls you, one day. You’re in the den, feet up, TV turned to mute.

His voice sounds distant, like he’s on a payphone, or some old, far away line. Nothing like the cell phone you know he’s actually using. 

He’s flat, too. Quiet. As though it’s an effort to even sound like that.

"You anywhere near us?" you ask him, meaning, come back. You listen to his pause, really listen, like it’s going to tell you something. 

"Oregon," he says, at last. Meaning, no.

"Oregon. How’s Oregon?" 

"It’s…" You think he turns away from the phone to sigh. You still hear it. "There’s a garden," he says, in one breath.

"A garden?" A fallen angel thing, you’re thinking: a grace thing. You know he’s looking for this stuff. You know he doesn’t like to talk about it. That’s something you get. That’s something you can definitely understand. But, still. "What kind of garden?" 

"Um." You can practically see his frown; you can see his eyes narrowing, and you wonder, suddenly, what he’s looking at right now, where exactly he is. "Large?" he says, and you laugh.

He asks how you’re doing, how Sam and Kevin are; he asks about the book you were reading the last time he was around. You finished that one ages ago. You don’t say that, though. You just tell him it was good. 

You want to reach right through the phone, you want to grab his shoulders and say, why do you sound like that? Why do you sound sad? It’s you who’s leaving. It isn’t me. 

But you don’t. You try and make him laugh instead. 

"Dean," he says, at one point. "You’re all right?" 

"What?" you say. "I’m great." And you hear it, then: your own voice. The flatness there, too.

Castiel’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “I saw your show the other day. In a motel.”

"My show?"

"The doctor one," he tells you, and you realize that Cas is trying to avoid saying the words Doctor Sexy. Fuck, you think, oh my God. You kind of want to laugh, but also, your chest hurts. It’s aching.

"Yeah?" you manage. "You like it?" 

You’re living a life where you get to ask Cas’s opinion on Dr. Sexy, and he’s states away, you’re talking to him on the goddamn phone. There’s probably something funny about that, you think. Probably.

"I think so," Cas says, slowly. "It was interesting."

You close your eyes. You want to see him. You want him here.

\--

He calls again around a week later. The two of you don’t talk about much. It’s getting colder. You and Sam dealt with some vamps recently; Cas took care of a salt and burn. He likes this commercial with a sleepy dog in it, but you’ve not seen it yet.

"I’m in Kansas now," Cas says, as the conversation’s winding down. He says it really casually. But suddenly, you get the feeling he might be listening hard. Listening to your silence, like you listen to his.

It makes you wonder, a little. It makes you feel kind of brave.

"Dude,” you say. “So come see us already." Your heart does not start thudding.

And you sounded casual yourself, but you’re grinning wide when he says, “Oh. Yes, I - yes, okay.”


	3. Chapter 3

You open the door. 

He's standing there, scruffy-looking and tired, his head ducked a little as he looks at you. 

"Dean," he says. He smiles, tentative, and you can feel yourself smiling too. You think it might look the same. You think it might look pretty dumb.

"Hey, man," you say, and then you're reaching for his arm, you're tugging him through the door. You see his surprise, and how he tries to cover it.

\--

You're both standing in the war room, and suddenly you're thinking, what next? You look at Cas in his jeans and blue plaid, in a gray jacket that you haven't seen before. He's got the beard still, and his hair's getting too long now, too messy. You think, I could cut it, just a little. I could sort that out for him.

It's a weird thought to have, but you're having it. 

Cas is glancing around.

"Sam and Kevin are out," you say. "Groceries." You usually get the groceries. Today though, you wanted to stay here. Today you made a grocery list, and you kept adding to it, you kept thinking of things, remembering things. Remembering telling Cas about that Twix commercial, and how he's never had a Twix. Remembering you've been wanting to do a chicken satay for a while. You kept asking for the list back, and back again, until Kevin held it crumpled in his hand and said, "Dean, I'll tear this up, I swear to God."

"Hey, fuck you," you told him, nice and casual. He just made a face. And you let it go. It was pretty easy to let go, actually.

"Hungry?" you ask Cas now. He looks hungry, if you're honest. He's always looking hungry, looking tired. He goes away and you worry about him, and it should feel bad, the worry. It should feel exhausting, like it always does. But then sometimes he asks you things. Asks you questions, how you're doing, if you slept okay, if you've had dinner yet. You tell him about a hunt and he says, you weren't injured? And then your own worrying doesn't feel so bad. It doesn't feel like something that's constantly draining from you, something that you're sending out hopelessly into a void. It feels like something you and Cas do for each other. And it's okay.

Cas is looking unsure, so you reach out and touch his arm. "I was about to make something," you say. "You want a sandwich?"

"Um," he says, looking down at his arm, looking up at you. You try another smile, just one corner of your mouth, and it's enough. "Okay,” he says. “Thank you."

\--

He follows you into the kitchen, sits down at the table when you tell him to. You can feel him watching as you grab stuff from the pantry, from the fridge. 

"I saw that commercial," you tell him. "The one with the dog. Pretty funny." 

You had to look it up on YouTube, actually. But Cas maybe doesn't need to know that. 

"You did?" he says. Then, all proud-sounding, "I found your Twix commercial on the internet."

You blink. You look down at the ham and cheese. "I liked it," Cas is saying, and you're thinking, he looked it up. He looked it up. Thinking it like an idiot.

"It's a good one," you tell him. You want to say something more, but you don't know what. What would you even say? "You want tomato on this?" you ask. It's not what you were going for, but his face turns all hopeful at the question, so it’s fine.

You finish up the sandwiches. You set them down on the table, and then he puts his hand on your arm.

You stop.

It's an awkward gesture. He's copying what you did earlier, but he's doing it kind of badly. Stilted, so goddamn uncertain about it. 

You look at his face, at his frown, so concentrated, trying to get it right. And you love him. You know you do. You know that’s been it, all this time. Jesus Christ. 

"Dean," he says, totally intent, totally oblivious. "Thank you for this. And for inviting me here." He takes his hand away, and he turns back to the table, ready to eat. Like it’s as simple as that.

You're still just standing there. You can't seem to move.

Eventually, he kind of has to look up at you. 

"You know," you manage, trying for casual, probably miles out. "You can be here whenever you want. You don't need to be invited. It's home, man."

You wait out the silence. It's awful, but you wait it out, and you wait out the way he stares at you. Quiet, totally still. He looks almost scared. You know the feeling. You want to reach out for him, you know that too; you want to pull him close, and there's this new thought in your head now: Maybe someday. You're thinking, maybe someday I will.

It's basically terrifying.

"Home," Cas echoes, at last. He's looking at you in that way he does sometimes. Like you're someone so important. Someone good. Better than he thinks he deserves. You never know what to think, when he looks at you like that.

"Yeah," you say. You finally remember how to sit down. "So welcome home, buddy. Eat your sandwich."

\--

Later, you ask him about the garden. About what he's been doing while he's been gone. It's just the two of you, sitting on a couch in the den. The TV's on, volume turned down quiet. There was the Twix commercial earlier, and right away you glanced at each other, right away you both smiled. It made you feel so dumb. You kind of loved it.

"I thought I'd know," Cas is saying, because he tells you stuff like this, when you ask. "I thought I'd feel it if I found something - significant." He sends you a look, and it’s wry and sad. "I didn't know. I couldn't tell."

"I'm sorry, man."

He shakes his head. "You shouldn't be." He doesn't say _it's my fault_ , but you know he's thinking it. You're sitting close enough that it's easy to nudge his arm. He takes a breath. "It would be nice," he says, "to have a home here."

"You have one," you tell him. He looks at you, and his expression is suddenly so open. You can see exactly how tired he is. You can see that maybe he's actually kind of lost. But you stay stubborn. "You do, Castiel." 

"I want," he starts, and then he looks away. "I like talking with you," he says, slowly. "Being with you." He glances your way. "I want to be." He admits it quietly, like a secret.

"Hey," you say. You're feeling a little shaky. "Same here, man." You rest your hand on his shoulder, maybe needing steadying yourself. And just for a moment, he puts his hand on your arm again. There and gone.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he says, quick and soft. "I don't feel… right." He laughs then, an empty huff of air.

You tighten your grip. "Well. Honestly, man. Me neither, half the time." 

He looks at you sadly. Like he knows; like he's unhappy about that, too. 

"I'm sorry," he says back. Then, looking right at you, "I want to help you. I - you know that?" 

You almost tell him you don't need it. The words are right there, basically instinctive at this point. But then you're remembering his questions on the phone. He asks about you. He worries about you. He looks up the stupid commercials you tell him about.

"Yeah," you say instead. "I know." It feels like a heavy thing to say. 

"There's just always - both."

And you think you know what he means. The angels on one side, you and Sam - all of this - on the other. And Cas always in between.

"We'll figure it out," you tell him.

"Dean." And he closes his eyes. "I have to find them. I have to find _something_. It doesn't make sense, like this."

You don't know what to say. They all just disappeared, the angels, and you thought that it was good at first. One less problem to deal with. But now you don't know. You move your hand, slide it slowly along his shoulder, then back, trying for comforting. Trying for something.

He reaches over and he takes your hand in his. Your breath catches; you stop moving. The two of you are sitting there and he's holding your hand. He doesn't say anything. Not for a long time.

You think that he might have to leave again. You think that's probably coming. And at one point, it might've made you feel better, knowing that he doesn't want to go either. But it doesn't, now. It doesn't help. You don't feel better knowing that he's miserable about this too.

But maybe, you're thinking, looking at Cas's hand over yours, maybe it'll be different this time. Maybe when he calls, you can tell him all the stuff on those lists you think up. All those things you mean to tell him. And maybe Cas has got lists, too. He must do. You know Cas, really. You know he does. So maybe you can call him, and he can talk to you. 

You turn your hand over, so you can hold his right back. 

"I'll help you too, all right?" you tell him, and he holds on.


End file.
